


merry little christmas

by skuls



Series: X Files Rewatch Series [19]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s06e06 How the Ghosts Stole Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 03:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuls/pseuds/skuls
Summary: A How the Ghosts Stole Christmas AU: what if Mulder hadn’t been alone for Christmas?





	merry little christmas

**Author's Note:**

> this felt necessary after the evilness of my other htgsc fic. this fic is fairly unangsty; just mulder and scully and various holiday-themed stuff.

Two days before Christmas is something of a sad affair at the FBI, at least half the agents in the bullpen having taken off to go visit family. Scully sips coffee under a sad little spring of holly in the breakroom, surveying the empty desks. Someone has set up a little Christmas tree on their desk. It’s the tiniest amount of spirit that counts, she supposes. Down in the basement, there’d usually been nothing in the way of decoration.

“It’s certainly a holly, jolly Christmas in here, huh?” Mulder materializes at her shoulder, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Tis the season,” Scully agrees dryly, taking a sip of the coffee. A year ago, she would’ve been out for the holidays herself, but she would like very much not to think about what happened last year. She’d flat-out refused to go to San Diego, threatening to skip Christmas all together. Her mother had suggested that she be the one to host this year, and Scully had been grateful. But the pressure of family coming to town, the overhanging cloud of Christmas, lingers in her mind like a heavy stone. Christmas has never been the same since she was little, has never been the same since her father and Melissa died. “Do you have any plans for the holidays, Mulder?” she asks him, chipping off a bit of paint on the handle with her fingernail.

“Nah,” he says, reaching around her for the coffee pot.

She blinks in surprise, setting the cup down in the sink. “Really? You’re not even going to visit your mother?” She realizes just then that she has no idea what he does for Christmas; how could they have been partners for over five years without her ever knowing where he goes every December?

“No, the Mulders aren’t big on family gatherings, and my mom doesn’t really celebrate, anyway…” The coffee sloshes its way into the cup. He sets the pot back down. “What about you, Scully? Do you have any big plans?”

She turns on the water, rinsing out the mug. “My brother and his family are coming into town. I’ll be spending the day at my mother’s with all of them… Will you really be alone on Christmas, Mulder?”

He’s shrugging at her. “Sure, why not? I’ve spent enough of them alone.” The casualness in his voice isn’t quite as strong as it should be; it’s strained, just a little.

Scully switches off the water, watching him drink his coffee out of the corner of her eye. An idea springs up in her mind, too tantalizing to push away. “You don’t have to spend it alone, Mulder,” she offers, her voice going quiet at the edges.

He looks up from his mug in surprise, eyebrows raising at her. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean… look, I have a lot of shopping and wrapping to do tomorrow. My nephew is about to turn one, and I’m buying into my mother’s conspiracy to spoil him rotten.” He chuckles a little at that, watching her carefully. She half-shrugs, her shoulders hunched up almost protectively. “You could come along if you wanted,” she offers.

It’s not the most absurd suggestion she’s ever made; they’ve been spending more time together outside of work, anyways. Chasing down X-Files and almost getting fired, or just keeping each other company outside of the long, droning hours of background checks. Outside of the incident with Gibson Praise in the summer, they’ve been companionable. It’s not absurd at all, for her to ask her best friend to spend Christmas Eve with her. But the silence that transpires between them directly after makes her feel like it is. She swallows, waiting for his reply.

“So I’d have to follow you around stores?” Mulder asks finally. “Listen to Christmas carols and be full of holiday cheer?”

She pokes at her cheek with her tongue to keep from grimacing. “Look, if you’d rather not…”

“Oh, no, no. I didn’t say that.” He’s smiling now, teasing, reaches out to nudge her shoulder. “Just wanted to know what I was getting into, Scully. You know. For reference purposes.”

“Oh.” She crosses her arms over her chest in an almost protective manner. “Well. Yes, like I said, I have shopping and wrapping. But we have tomorrow off, so it doesn’t necessarily have to last the entire day…”

Still smiling, he runs his hand down to cup her elbow. “Sounds great, Scully. I think I owe you a few after you repeatedly bailing me out with Kersh.”

“Careful, Mulder,” she says, only half joking. “You've clearly never gone last-minute shopping on Christmas Eve.”

“C’mon, Scully. I've faced down terrorists and aliens living under the ice in Antarctica. How bad can it be?”

\---

Pretty damn bad, in fact.

It turns out, as she expected, that having Mulder with her is entirely necessary, if only because checkout lines are worse than rush hour on the 95. The stores are ridiculously busy, packed elbow-to-elbow with all the other last minute shoppers, who have all the ferociousness holiday specials would have you believe. After the first store, Scully is done. Necessity only forces her to come up with the theory of divide and conquer. She digs into her purse and finds an old receipt from a gas station, makes Mulder a  _very specific_  list and sends him to the opposite ends of the stores so they can, assumedly, save time. It doesn't help. He looks slightly pissy the entire time, and she's probably doing no better, annoyance building steadily the entire time. “If I hear  _Silent Night_  one more time,” she tells him after their last store, her voice as dry as the winter wind, “I'm going to start taking hostages.” He laughs at this, genuinely, the fingers of his bag-free hand coming down to rest at the small of her back.

They do, eventually, get back to her apartment. Scully dumps bags on her kitchen counter and slumps down at her table. Mulder is moving through her kitchen behind her, opening the fridge and poking at the contents. “That was worse than the feral cats, I think,” he comments. “We may have stumbled into an X-File, Scully.”

“I'm sorry, Mulder,” she says wearily, rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “That probably wasn't any improvement on your holiday.”

“Eggnog?” He shakes the plastic container at her.

She nods without looking. “Bourbon’s in the cabinet.”

“Merry Christmas to us.” The sounds of things shifting in her cabinet, liquid pouring, and then he's handing her a cup. She thanks him, sipping slowly.

He sits down across from her, hands flat on the table. “Wrapping?” he asks, conversationally.

She nods grimly. “Wrapping.”

\---

The wrapping actually does go quicker with Mulder's help, even if he wraps like an elementary schooler: sloppy and with too much tape. Oh, well; Matthew won't care. They make their way through half a roll of wrapping paper while  _A Christmas Carol_  plays in the background.

“I'm surprised you didn't want to do something like this with your Christmas,” Scully comments as the ghost of Marley visits Scrooge.

Mulder's struggling with a wad of tape stuck to a piece of wrapping paper. “What, you mean being haunted by the ghosts of my past who teach me to be a better person?” He swears as the paint comes up off the wrapping paper with the tape. 

“No, that's not what I meant.” She shakes her head, feeling a bit foolish. “I meant… out pursuing some X-File.” He'd spent the Christmas of 1996 on a case that she'd refused to go on for obvious reasons; she'd spent half the holiday on the phone with him, in part worried that he was going to get himself killed and in part not wanting to face the absence of her sister, too large in the room. Onscreen, Marley shakes his chains at Scrooge, and she adds on lamely, “Ghost hunting or something.”

Mulder doesn't look particularly upset. He balls the wrapping paper up, tossing it in a corner. “Actually, I almost did.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Seriously? Ghost hunting on Christmas?”

“Sure, why not? All holidays have their ghost stories, Scully.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, really.” She crosses her arms. “And what's this story? Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future?”

“Oh, no. It's much more traditional than that. Macabre spirits with a holiday twist.”

“Hmm.” She creases the corner on the side of the box she is wrapping. (A noisy toy that is sure to drive Bill mad.) “All right. Fill me in.”

He grins at her mischievously before rearranging his expression to reflect the story, and beginning in a mysterious tone. “Christmas, 1917. It was a time of dark, dark despair. American soldiers were dying at an ungodly rate in a war-torn Europe while at home, a deadly strain of the flu virus attacked young and old alike. Tragedy was a visitor on every doorstep, while a creeping hopelessness set in with every man, woman and child. It was a time of dark, dark despair.”

“You said that already,” she says, amused, sticking a bow on top of the package on her lap.

“But at 1501 Larkspur Lane in Maryland, for a pair of star-crossed lovers, tragedy came not from war or pestilence, not by the boot heel or the bombardier, but by their own innocent hand.”

He looks to her questioningly, as if unsure if she wants him to go on. “Go on,” she says, finishing with her package and propping her feet up on the table as she sets it aside.

“His name was Maurice. He was a… a brooding but heroic young man, beloved of Lyda, a sublime beauty with a light that seemed to follow her wherever she went. They were likened to two angels descended from heaven whom the gods could not protect from the horrors being visited upon this cold, grey earth.”

Mulder and his flare for the dramatic. She smiles a little to herself, asks, “And what happened to them?”

“Driven by a tragic fear of separation, they forged a lovers' pact, so that they might spend eternity together and not spend one precious Christmas apart.”

Macabre indeed. “They killed themselves?” she asks, surprised.

“And their ghosts haunt their house every Christmas Eve,” Mulder says eerily. She laughs, somewhat amused. “I just gave myself chills,” he says.

“It's a good story, Mulder, and very well told, but I don't believe it,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You don't believe in ghosts?” he asks, shocked, leaning back and putting his feet up beside hers.

Having spent the past six years debunking each and every myth he throws at her, she's surprised at his surprise. “That surprises you?”

“Well… yeah. I thought everyone believed in ghosts.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “Well, I don't.”

“Oh, of course not,” he says haughtily. “You wouldn't believe a ghost if it got right up in your face and showed you how it died.”

She slugs him in the shoulder, amused and annoyed all at once. He makes a face at her, playful, and she smiles back. Onscreen, the Ghost of Christmas Past draws aside Scrooge's bed curtain.

“So why aren't you there?” she asks, poking his foot with hers.

“What?”

“Why didn't you go investigate? A ghost story sounds a lot more up your alley than a shopping apocalypse at your local department store.”

“I didn't want to go alone,” he says.

He's totally playing her, side-eyeing her to see her reaction, and goddamnit, it works. She made him fight off angry Christmas shoppers and wrap presents for her nephew and her brother who hates him, and it's not even nine o’clock yet. Humoring him and going to investigate a certainly-not-haunted house is better than sitting here and letting her own Christmas ghosts creep in.

“Well,” she offers. “Christmas Eve isn't over.”

\---

Scully doesn't believe in ghosts. And she isn't sure what transpires over the next few hours at 1501 Larkspur Lane. But she does know that, after crawling in pools of her own blood and walking away completely unscathed, she's much more willing to listen to Mulder's ghost theories. Or perhaps never, ever go to a haunted house again.

\---

She drives Mulder home sometime after midnight. They're both mostly silent on the car ride home, which is understandable, all things considered. Being shot by someone or something who looks like your partner is hound to shake anyone up, even if it's happened to you before. She's very much regretting suggesting they go. Mulder's likely regretting suggesting it in the first place.

Besides that, the things that those people—Maurice and Lyda or whoever—said have her nearly as shaken as the part where she thought she was shot. Calling her life small, claiming that her only joy in life is proving Mulder wrong. That Mulder had brought her there so that he'd never have to be alone again. She wanted to argue that  _she_  suggested it, that he hadn't tricked her into anything. That he wasn't alone, because he was spending Christmas Eve with her. But maybe he was thinking of when she would go to be with her family tomorrow, and all the Christmases after that he'd spend alone. She swallows, eyes on the road. On the Christmas lights flashing by.

When they get back to Mulder's apartment, she pulls over to the curb and leans back in her seat. Mulder doesn't make a move to get out. “You must be exhausted,” he says quietly. His fingers are hovering near the window, the heat from his skin fogging the glass in tiny starbursts.

“I don't know if I could sleep.” Scully's fingers tangle together in her lap. “Mulder… none of that really happened out there tonight. That was all in our heads, right?”

“I-it must have been,” he says uncertainly.

“Mmm.” She looks up, turning to face him. “Not that my only joy in life is proving you wrong.”

“When have you proved me wrong?” he asks, a little challengingly.

Surprised, she asks hesitantly, “Well, why else would you want me out there with you?”

“You didn't want to be there?” He raises his eyebrows at her, and she reminds herself in the pause that follows that she did suggest it. But he's already backtracking, says, “Oh, that's, um… that's self-righteous and… narcissistic of me to say, isn't it?”

“No, I mean…” She licks her lower lip, considering. “I did want to be out there with you.” Maybe not in the sense of getting-shot-in-a-haunted-house, but with him. She did want to be with him.

They are quiet in the following moments. Mulder smiles a little, looking down at his lap. “Now, um… I know we said that we weren't going to exchange gifts but, uh… I got you… a little something,” he says to his lap. “It's upstairs.”

She's filled with a sudden rush of affection, one of the fleeting urges to kiss him that come and go. “Mulder…” she says, voice soft, touched.

He looks up to meet her eyes, smiling at her. “Merry Christmas.”

She turns in her seat, reaching into the back and grabbing the package she'd wrapped for him from the floorboard, the one she'd hidden under an old coat all day. “Well, I got you a little something, too,” she says, passing it to him.

He laughs a little, taking the package and shaking it a little. She laughs a little, too, caught up in the kid-like joy of Christmas. They are not shot, they are not trapped in a haunted house for all eternity, and they are not alone.

“Want to, uh… to go upstairs?” Mulder offers uncertainly, scraping his teeth over his lower lip.

It's just past midnight, and she really, really isn't tired. And she'd like to stop reliving their ordeal inside the house, and she knows if she has to go home alone that she won't be able to  _not_  think about that. “Sure,” she says, switching off the car. “I believe you owe me a present.”

\---

After they open their presents, she makes no move to leave. She burrows into the corner of the couch, leather warm against her skin. Mulder has flipped on the TV in the background, and it's some Christmas movie, of course, the soundtrack unsettling to her ears. He shoves aside wrapping paper and reaches out to touch her ankle. “Hey, Scully,” he whispers. “You look like you're about to fall asleep.”

Her eyelids are drooping in a way that is very indicative of her sleepiness, and she doesn't actually care. “Hmm,” she mumbles, motioning towards the window. “Is that snow?”

The thunderstorm has turned to white, snowflakes fluttering down outside his grimy window. “Yeah, I guess it is,” Mulder says, rubbing his thumb in circles around her ankle.

She nestles further into the couch, crossing her arms over her stomach. “Roads’ll be terrible. Can't drive now. Too sleepy.”

“What about your family? Don't you have to go see them in a few hours?”

“Mmm, I need sleep first.” Her eyes are all the way closed now. Someone is singing a Christmas carol onscreen, their voice cheerful, and it makes her feel almost happy.

“Thought you weren't tired,” Mulder says from somewhere above her, teasing.

“I changed my mind,” she says firmly. “Now let me get some sleep.”

“Okay.” He pushes hair back from her face, and she can suddenly feel him leaning over her, pressing his mouth briefly to her forehead. She shivers, eyes still closed. “Merry Christmas, Scully,” he whispers, and it's what Mulder said after he shot her (except it wasn't Mulder, she thinks, and she has no idea what the hell happened), but it sounds different this time. Not ominous. Just sweet, like he's happy to be with her.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she mumbles, everything inside her heavy with exhaustion. She's not awake, not really.

She thinks he sits beside her,  leaning back into the couch. She think she might move towards him. Because it's cold. She thinks he puts an arm around her, drawing her into his side so that her face lands pressed against his shoulder. She thinks she falls asleep.


End file.
